The Shorter Leg

They slid into the easy chairs first,

brothers, sisters, all their claims

already staked out. I was left

with the one by the draft.

Its leg was always short,

that one by the window frame.

I’d tuck my feet beneath me,

pretending it was warm.

Another dinner, same old tilt,

the weight distributed wrong.

My oldest, with a flick of his wrist,

pointing me to my spot.

It’s not the chair, not really.

It’s the gesture, the hundred times

before, the slow sinking

into the place already made for me.